


Leaving it to Imagination

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Fantasizing, Feelings, Fingering, M/M, Masturbation, Matthew being a creep, Obsession, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, handjobs, the whole shebang, why is feelings a tag? read to find out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1843822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfortunately, Matthew doesn't work the night shift.</p><p>Fortunately, Matthew has always been the proud owner of a very, very vivid imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leaving it to Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first fanfic ever! Whoo! And it's about Matthew jerkin' it to Will wow
> 
> Alternate summary: matt gets fucked by imaginary will and there's way too much elaborate prose and emotion and comma use in this fic to be proper smut. plus: bottom-y matt cuz the world needs more of that. come on. come onnnnnnnn.
> 
> Set during Mukozuke, a little before Will receives an ear in the mail. Maybe even the night before! For excitement! Golly!

The first time Matthew wakes up with a stiffness between his legs, he takes a shower and goes back to sleep.

The second time around, he throws the covers off, does 5 sets of push ups, and then switches between thinking about life and pondering whether or not it's worth it to open up his laptop and watch porn until he falls asleep.

However, the third time is different.

This time, Matthew has somehow startled himself out of a rather pleasant dream about Will Graham. Not that the dream was especially lascivious, but the raging boner is Matthew’s boxer shorts doesn’t seem to care.

He sits up in bed and tweaks his bottom lip between his right thumb and forefinger, his left hand unconsciously creeping dangerously near his groin. Matthew exhales slowly, each breath of carbon dioxide leaving his lungs at a languid trickle, as he wishes that he worked the night shift so that he could watch Will Graham as he is unconscious, his stiff shell of iron bars and cracked Plexiglas lowered in place of something more Freudian and diaphanous.

Matthew wonders how his lovely Will Graham sleeps. Is he fitful and jerky, his body rolling over the mattress like a wooden ship coasted along by turbulent waves in a tropical storm, waterlogged and left to the whim of God? Or does he slumber like a nighttime visitor in a graveyard, stony and somber, a granite angel half-weathered by the rain, standing guard over the restful dead? Perhaps words drift past his teeth and tongue when he sleeps, telltale nocturnal murmurs of his sins, or perhaps Will Graham’s confessions are silent, the mere fluttering of eyelids as he dreams of killing.

The thought brings a smile to Matthew’s lips.

The orderly flings off his undershirt and slides his boxers down past his hips in one fluid motion. Maybe he’ll bring up switching to the night shift with Chilton tomorrow, but leaving it up to his imagination is just as good, if not better. After all, Matthew has always been the proud owner of a very, very vivid imagination.

He starts off with a few firm strokes running his whole length. Matthew leans his head back and a sigh escapes him. He hadn’t realized how much he needed this, but the delayed gratification almost makes things better. There is a sort of sweet satisfaction from denying oneself of pleasure, and then gorging on it like a glutton.

_You are in a cell at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The cell door is slightly open, a ring of keys jammed in the lock. Your hands feel twitchy and empty without the familiarly harsh metal shapes; your ears hypersensitive without their wind chime-like clinking. Instead, your fingers rub nervously over roughly hewn prison-issue cotton, just barely able to feel the body heat from under the teal-grey fabric. The prisoner's jumpsuit does not belong to you. Your eardrums are attuned to not one, but two pairs of lungs breathing in and out, and another set of flexible digits are running through your short-cropped hair._

_Ever so delicately, you reach into Will Graham’s pants, past his federally approved underwear, until you touch something that is somehow both soft and hard at the same time. With the care of a bird handler removing a newborn sparrow from its nest, you hold Will’s dick, your fingers almost shaking with excitement. You kiss its tip gingerly, shuddering at the brief contact of skin._

_“Suck on it,” Will says softly, bending his spine slightly so that his words brush the top of your ear. You comply eagerly, lapping a few broad strokes to the underside of his cock before putting it in your mouth. Your lips close over the erection and you slide yourself forward, hands still gripping Will’s thighs tightly, until his entire length is encased in teeth, gums, two jaws carefully positioned apart, and an obsequious tongue all too eager to please._

_This evokes a low moan from within Will’s throat, and a pure inundation of happiness runs through your body from the consummate joy of pleasing your exquisite Mr. Graham. On your knees, you are a devotee in revelry._

_You bob your head back and forth, taking him deeper into your throat and back into your mouth again and again. It chafes your lips a little, this repetitive motion, but any amount of discomfort is worth a single molecule of Will Graham’s enjoyment. In a sudden innovation, you bring his penis out of your mouth, an opalescent trail of spittle dangling indolently from your lips to his cock. You flick your tongue against the red slit at the head of his erection, and his pelvis thrusts against you slightly, so that you have to move your hands to his hips to keep him in place. Meticulously, you coat every inch of his now swollen dick with your saliva, enjoying the feeling of Will squirming in your grip._

Matthew begins rubbing himself faster, the jerks shorter and more erratic. His breath comes in huffs now, no longer the gossamer silk of calm he had respired before starting, but a mess of torn canvas flapping about in the wind.

_Will has to place his hands to either side of your cranium and wrench you away to get you to stop sucking him off. His chest is heaving, and as you tilt your head up and stare quizzically at his face, you notice that his pupil’s have eclipsed the blue of his irises, and as beautiful as they looked threaded through with green and gold, you have to admit that he looks even more breathtaking like this, all desire and primal yearning._

_“I don’t want to climax too fast,” Will murmurs, his fingers tracing patterns over your cheekbones._

_Of course, the Chesapeake Ripper never makes things quick and clean with his victims. He likes to draw out their humiliating ends, eviscerating them sopping organ by sopping organ, until they become a work of art in a macabre gallery, gaining undeserved fame and beauty in death. A delighted grin spreads across your face._

_Will stands up from his perch on the cot, and yanks you up with him, his fingers digging into your bicep. Even standing up, Will is taller than you, heavier, broader about the shoulders and chest, and you have no doubt that with his reputation, he could snap your spine cleanly into two, and then strip the line of bones from your back to split each knobbed vertebrae in half and make a mockery of your corpse. The realizations thrills you, and you wonder if Will can see the widening of your smile in the dim light._

_Wordlessly, Will begins stripping you of your white orderly’s uniform, starkly blank against his own attire the colour of murky gutters after a rain. You shrug off your coat and let it fall to the ground as Will unbuttons your shirt and drops it in a corner. You step out of your pants and shoes, and the dangerous convict in front of you hooks his fingers into the last piece of clothing on your body (grey cotton briefs, the only non-white item you wore, as if some elegiac symbolism is made by your bleached outerwear and dark undergarments) and slides it down to the floor. You shiver, not because of the cold, but because of your newfound vulnerability in stark contrast to your still-clothed lover, his waistband only pulled down far enough to allow his dick freedom. You stand nude in front of Will Graham, and you could swear that he is relishing in the sight of you, just as you are of him._

Matthews’s cock twitches between his fingers, and a half-formed word made of harsh syllables and guttural sounds is pushed past his clenched teeth.

_Will sits back down on the cot, again, pulling you with him so that you sit on his lap, his glistening cock pressed against your back. Your bodies are fluid together now, perfectly inclined to each other’s movements, your bodily functions in glorious unison. He lowers his head to the firm plane of muscle between your neck and shoulder, and places a kiss there before bringing his teeth together on your skin. His caress educes a sigh of pleasure, and his bite extracts a yelp of pain. As if in response, Will’s hand darts from being curled around your elbow to your own throbbing erection, desperately in need of attention._

Matthew closes his eyes and imagines that it is not his own hand, but Will Graham’s that is feeding such a sudden peal of euphoria through his body. He wonders: _Would Mr. Graham finger me open first, or just start fucking?_

_Up and down, Will’s hand moves, his stroking deft and deliberate. Bubbling droplets of semen, like budding pearls, glide down the side of your swelling cock under his firm guidance, and similarly premature sounds make their way from your throat to the open air. Will shushes you in a way that is both gentle and strict, and you hold your tongue between your front teeth to keep silent. Will’s free hand moves steadily from birthing bruises on your left bicep to stroking your waist, to pinching your hip, and then to cupping your ass, settling there as if pleased with what he has found._

With a quick swipe of his thumb over the head of his dick, Matthew decides that Will Graham would probably finger him before penetration. Hawks always spot and identify their prey before diving in for the kill; they never fly without purpose. Every movement is purposeful, planned, and well prepared. Besides, Matthew would like to draw this out a little longer.

_Still jerking you off, Will’s other hand suddenly grips your jaw, forcing your attention away from the task of being quiet to his insistent fingers pushing at your lips. Opening your mouth slightly, you allow three of Will’s fingers to pass your teeth and you suck on them sensually, lathering them methodically with saliva. As soon as the fingers leave your mouth, you feel them at your other end instead. A finger works past a tight coil of muscle with the aid of slick spit, and soon is inside of you. It feels foreign and cold, the skin callous, the rough fingernail chewed, but the familiar strength behind the digit reassures you, and just as your body relaxes and your muscles loosen, a second finger is further supplied, pushing and scissoring to get inside and stretch you out. Will adds a third finger to the bunch after that, and although you feel your hole widening (how considerate of Will to prime you for penetration!), the pain makes your breath stick disagreeably, even in your enraptured adoration._

_But nothing prepares you for what comes next. Will lifts you almost effortlessly onto his dick, and your own weight and gravity do the rest. Will pushes the flat of one palm against your chest to keep you in place, and slaps the other over your mouth to stop you from crying out. You don’t remember him being this thick when you sucked him off, and you regret your lack of foresight in not bringing adequate lubrication now. Distantly, you hear Will whispering susurrations of comfort and planting endless kisses over your neck and shoulders, and although it helps, there is nothing he can do to ease your momentary pain. Eventually, sharp discomfort ebbs into a pleasant burn, and you are thrilled by how tightly fitted you are around Will; surely, he must feel good too._

_And then he starts moving._

_“_ Fuck _,” the two of you moan in unison. Will bobs you up and down enthusiastically, his arms curled under your thighs and hips thrusting up to meet your ass. He goes slowly at first, as if you are a fragile, breakable thing, but works himself up to a speed that leaves you swearing under your breath and him with a sheen of sweat covering his skin. It feels undeniably_ right _, for Will to be fucking you like this, and your toes curl in pleasure at the way you can feel every bit of him. Soon, Will’s hand returns to your dick, lavishing attention upon it, and providing a distraction from the throbbing inside of you. He is no longer controlled and measured, but almost frenzied, the rise and fall of his chest beating at your back, his movements indifferent to your pain. It’s not so much that the arousal has blinded him, as it is that he is long past caring._

_“Well? Aren’t you going to beg for me?” Will hisses, his thrusts coming in easily now, but no less wild. Still jacking you off, Will’s other hand leaps to your neck, fingers tightening around your throat like a cage of five unbreakable wires. He purrs deeply. “Go on.”_

_There are tears swimming at the corners of your eyes, whether in pain, terror, or all-consuming joy, you do not know. “Please, Mr. Graham,” you choke out, your voice barely more than a labored breath, “Give me more. Fuck me harder.”_

_Will does so, with great sadistic satisfaction, pleasing himself more than he is obeying you. You swear that you can_ feel _Will’s heartbeat inside of you, as he hits that sought-after spot again and again, making sparks fly across your vision._

_Almost mechanically, your own left hand joins Will’s at your loins, so that your dick is encircled by both of your desperate, clawing fingers. You’re unbearably close to the edge, and so is Will. He knows it acutely, if the sudden, hungry shift in his posture means anything. “Cum for me,” he orders in a voice that is almost tender, and he lets go to allow you to your own devices._

Matthew bites his lip so hard that it bleeds, but the red globules spilling from his chin is hardly the only fluid coming out of his body now. He ejaculates with a final triumphant jerk, not bothering to cover his moans. He smiles, almost deliriously, at the perfectly timed mess he has made, covers spattered with sticky fluid and drizzled with droplets of scarlet.

God! _Semen spills on the prison floor, the pearly white dizzying against dingy concrete. You cry out, although you’re not sure what it is exactly that you said, it might have been some strangled version of “_ Will! _” With a few more powerful thrusts, he’s cumming too, and warmth blooms deep inside of you._

_Will lifts you off his now-softening dick, and you stumble on shaky legs to sit on the cot beside him. For a minute or so, the two of you exchange no words, but instead touches. Your hands are still hungry for more, and Will seems to want to memorize every last inch of your skin. Feverish lips move on top of yours, and eventually a soft repetition of the same chilling three words replace Will’s silence._

_You collapse on top of Will’s chest, utterly spent and feeling so acutely alive, it is as if your blood is gasoline and your veins are the unfortunately flammable hallways through which it is poured. Will has lit a spark in you, and it burns dangerously now, threatening to turn the entire building to charcoal and ashes. You have always loved fires. As ephemeral as they are, their scalding beauty dances bright enough to last an eternity in your mind, forever fuelled by your desire._

_“Thank you,” you sigh, rubbing your cheek against Will’s considerable scruff, “Thank you for everything, Mr. Graham.”_

Matthew reaches over the edge of the bed, and starts cleaning everything up with his discarded undershirt, the spent muscles of his arm twitching exhaustedly every now and then.

Despite the cloak of satisfaction that now encircles Matthew, a wistfulness also edges at its hem. In real life, his voice is never quite so smooth or proper as it is in his imagination. No matter how slow and careful his speech, or how many times he speaks to himself in front of the mirror trying to form each sound flawlessly, there is always something _off_ about his words, something not quite right in the stressed sibilance of soft letters. It is part of why he has not actually spoken to Will Graham yet, despite his all-consuming devotion and adoration.

Matthew tries not to dwell on his speech problem for too long, throwing his soiled undershirt aside again and pulling up his boxers, he settles comfortably in bed, confident that his dreams will soon become a reality. He has just been biding his time, that’s all, blending in with the harmlessly migrating ducks and geese, so well that even the prodigious empathy of Will Graham can detect nothing. In the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Matthew Brown is a paragon among orderlies: efficient, capable, and detached.

But soon (he hopes that it won’t take too long for FBI to stumble upon an earless Andrew Sykes), Will Graham’s fascinating skills will come in handy. Matthew plans to reveal himself to Will Graham in short order, and the thought of finally having another being understand him sends sparks through Matthew’s neural circuitry. Solitary predation is lifeless, bland and impractical. Matthew would much rather hunt with a partner, and it is certainly no disadvantage if that partner is the sublime, empathetic, Will Graham.

Even after such a thorough exercise of Matthew’s bodily functions, he is reluctant to close his eyes, the imprint of Will Graham branded behind his lids. Matthew wonders, idly staring at the ceiling, if what he feels for Will Graham can be classified as love. He knows that research and studies show that his kind does not really feel love, another monstrous facet that separates him from an approximation of a “normal human being”.

The young psychopath questions how everyone else seems to have a mutual agreement on what love is, despite not really knowing how the other person experiences this emotion. On an intellectual level, some understanding can be reached, but he has heard many times that love is not a logical entity. Matthew wonders if his own strange cocktail of obsession and lust is love, if not the same kind of love felt by others, then his own unique breed of emotion.

He thinks it is. He _knows_ it is. _He loves Will Graham._

With a rustle of blankets and a twist of limbs, Matthew is back in a suitable position to fall asleep. He has work and a high-security prisoner to tend to tomorrow, after all. It has been a unexpectedly long (although satisfying in many ways) night, and even the most vigilant of hawks need their rest.

Hopefully, he will dream of being fucked up the ass by Will Graham. Again.

“I love you, Mr. Graham,” he mutters to the open air, before heavy lids fall upon drooping eyes.

Through subconscious haze and a state of disorientation, Matthew hears a four-word reply.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *looks at rough draft of porn*: you know what this needs???? moRE DESCRIP TIVE IMAGERY AND ELOQUENTLY WRITTEN PROSE, MaYBE THRO W IN SOME DE EP FEELinGS T OO
> 
> So can I join the brownham club now or


End file.
